Mask of Innocence

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘Don’t make me shout again,’ he said. ‘It hurts.’

  ‘It doesn’t look as bad as it did.’

  ‘It feels a damn sight worse. Here, you have the chair, Mrs...I’m sorry.’

  ‘Amelia will do,’ she said.

  It was a basketwork chair with one cushion. He gestured for me to sit on his bed, which I did.

  ‘I wanted a word with you, anyway,’ I told him.

  ‘Me first,’ he said. ‘Then you probably won’t need to say yours.’

  I smiled at him. ‘Very enigmatic.’

  ‘It’s a point of law.’

  I sighed. ‘You know I’m ignorant of civil law.’

  ‘This is criminal,’ he said. Then to Amelia, ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘No, no. Richard smokes a pipe.’

  I felt for it. Yes, I had it. ‘What’s your point of criminal law?’

  I was taking it lightly. I’d had enough of any kind of law for one day.

  ‘Well...’ He lit his cigarette, blew out smoke, then stared at its tip. ‘Is it true that a convicted criminal isn’t allowed to profit from his crime?’

  I tried to maintain a casual attitude. ‘That’s so. There’d be no point in sending someone down for robbery, then handing the proceeds of it over to him to spend when he comes out.’

  ‘That’s pretty obvious,’ he said flatly. ‘I’m serious, Mr Patton. Don’t make fun of it.’

  ‘Sorry. But this is purely academic, surely?’

  ‘No. Not academic. It’d mean, then, that a murderer couldn’t inherit...’

  ‘Now hold it right there!’

  He ploughed straight on, ignoring my protest, ‘...from a murder. Couldn’t benefit from—’

  ‘Is this a joke, Paul? Are you serious?’

  ‘Couldn’t be more. I believe Jeremy killed our father.’

  8

  I had felt that something like this would have to be produced, but I hadn’t imagined what form it would take, nor who would offer it. Certainly not Paul.

  I said quietly, ‘I don’t see how you gain from this.’

  ‘Gain! That’s what everybody thinks about: what’s in it for me?’ He shook his head violently, and winced. ‘I’ve got what I want. All I ever expected. More.’

  ‘Then why make this accusation,’ I demanded, ‘if there’s nothing to gain by it?’

  He looked disgusted, and muttered, ‘Gain! Well, all right. Just think about it. To start with, wouldn’t it be peaceful for all of us if Jerry was locked away in a tidy little cell? And think about this. No more worries for him. No more problems. The Fraud Squad would be straightening out all his financial tangles, and he could sit back and read a good book. An improving book, as they used to say.’

  I couldn’t be sure how serious he was. He stared at me with his head cocked, his expression almost derisive. Paul was a man who would have contempt for his own motivations. At no time could I take him at face value — or rather, at word value. He tossed them at me, to field and throw back.

  ‘I don’t think he’d survive long in prison,’ I said quietly. ‘It wouldn’t be a pleasant life. Quite a leap, it would be, from Sir Jeremy Searle, baronet, to 7392416, convict.’

  ‘They’d ignore his title,’ Paul decided. ‘I mean — it wouldn’t sound right, the warders having to call him Sir Jeremy, and the rest of ‘em hey you!’

  I glanced at Amelia for a clue as to how she was taking this, but she seemed confused, and simply shook her head. But clearly Paul was leading somewhere. He was merely, now, laying down his terms of reference. Perhaps what he wanted to put over was so distressingly serious that he could deal with it only if he was thought to be facetious.

  Amelia, trying to help, said, ‘And if it killed him, this prison of yours, would you inherit the baronetcy, Paul? Would it be like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly it’d relapse, die, cease to exist.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t want it, anyway?’ she suggested, smiling at him and challenging his serious intent.

  ‘Not really. Think of it. Me — submitting paintings to the RA under the signature: Sir Paul Searle. It’d sound funny.’

  ‘They wouldn’t take you seriously?’ I suggested.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Nor do I, right now. Jeremy killed his father, indeed! There’s not one atom of evidence to support it.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  He asked this gently, then he waited for me to take it on. I said nothing. In the end he was forced into pursuing it, and he chose to start with motive.

  ‘Sir Jeremy Searle! Now doesn’t that sound impressive? I expect, for Jerry in his line of business, it’d be a big asset. He could edge his way on to boards. It’d look good on the company letterheads — Company Accountant: Sir Jeremy Searle, Bart. Lovely. It breeds confidence, that sort of thing. They wouldn’t even guess he was a conniving, fraudulent bastard.’

  ‘You’re pushing it too far,’ I told him sharply.

  It must have taken a very cynical appraisement of the situation to produce this from Paul, who had seemed to be wanting to help his brother.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I suppose I am. But I get so damned tired of it. Anything I try to do for him, he throws it back in my face. What’s his is his, and he won’t budge an inch. What’s mine is mine — and he won’t touch it. He’s just a damned fool, and he’ll go down waving his righteous flag.’

  ‘But not, surely,’ I said, ‘fool enough to kill his father for a title.’ Paul touched his chin. It was still painful. ‘It’s making it hurt, talking.’

  ‘Then stop talking,’ I advised. ‘Particularly this nonsense.’

  He was silent for a few moments. I thought perhaps that I’d got through to him. We waited. Eventually he lifted his head.

  ‘You don’t know him, that’s what the trouble is. All pernickety when it comes to procedure, that’s Jerry. All the rules have to be obeyed. It’ll drive him mad till he gets his own personal legal opinion on that one phrase in the will — does it include the watercolours? It’ll go right up to the Lord Chief Justice, before he’ll accept it. And d’you know why it’s driving him mad? No? Then I’ll tell you. It’s because he went so far as to kill his own father, and it’s got him nothing.’

  ‘Now Paul...be sensible,’ I said, because I was tired of this proposition.

  ‘They hated each other, you know,’ he went on. ‘Damn it all, I’ve seen it going on for years. Oh...I know it all came from dad — he started it. He always treated poor old Jerry with contempt, because Jerry hated shooting and fox-hunting. Is it surprising that Jerry picked it up and threw it right back?’

  There was silence, apart from my own breathing and the rustle as Amelia moved uneasily in the basketwork chair. Finally, I cleared my throat.

  ‘You probably don’t know that your mother blames herself for your father’s death. She’s told us what happened. It sounded...’ I hesitated, too long, I feared. ‘It carried a certain amount of conviction.’

  ‘Oh, it would. She’d fall over herself to protect him. Jerry’s always been her favourite. He never could go wrong, could Jerry. Never.’

  And Jennie, I guessed, had been the father’s favourite. After all, he’d forced through the adoption, and paid for it. And she was his. Had he called her Jennie, I wondered. Probably not. Janine, more likely, if only to separate her more concisely in his mind, Jerry and Jennie sounding so alike. And Paul, therefore, had been left in the middle, nobody’s favourite. That would have explained the bitter tone in his voice.

  I had to force my mind back to the subject under discussion, the circumstances which I wanted to impress on Paul.

  ‘Your mother’s given us a very graphic description of how your father’s death occurred.’

  ‘I’ll bet she has. And what load of rubbish did she heap on you?’

  ‘She told us she pushed him, from the head of the stairs.’

  ‘Hah!’ It was a choked laugh of disgust, which twisted his mouth with pain. ‘D�
��you really think that’d break his neck? Of course it wouldn’t. A few bruises, and he’d be on his feet again. And...hey, have you thought of this? He’d know he’d been pushed. Know it. How would she face him then, if it didn’t do any more than bruise him? How would she explain it? To his face.’

  ‘You’re doing too much talking,’ I told him, ‘considering it gives you pain. Try listening for a minute. Your mother told us it was an accident. She said that Charlie Pinson was at the house — downstairs — and he was shouting. Your father, she said, didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to face him. So she did no more than urge him. He’d got to face Pinson, she said.’

  ‘Urged him a bit too hard?’ He tried to sneer, but his swollen lip made a mockery of it. ‘And you believed that?’

  ‘I had to. She seemed sincere.’

  ‘If Charlie Pinson was shouting from the kitchen, Gladys would’ve known.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  ‘Have you asked her?’

  ‘I haven’t dared to.’

  I was finding it a novel experience to be at the wrong end of an interrogation. But strangely, it seemed the only way to handle it. Amelia touched my arm. It was a signal that she didn’t want to hear any more, but I knew there had to be more, and that it mattered. Paul hadn’t previously expressed this theory, I gathered. That this outburst followed on from a dramatic and violent incident seemed to add veracity to Paul’s claim. He had been driven to it.

  He allowed the silence to build up. He stared out of the window at nothing. Then he said, ‘Have you asked Charlie?’

  It hadn’t occurred to me. ‘No.’

  ‘Then perhaps you ought to. I reckon he wasn’t here that day. I reckon the whole story was faked between them.’

  ‘Your mother, Jeremy and Gladys Torrance?’

  ‘The time it happened, I’ve reckoned, Gladys would’ve been out doing the shopping. So there’s no point in asking her.’ Yet earlier he’d suggested I should.

  But I couldn’t get past him. He watched me, patiently, calmly and confidently.

  ‘I suppose you know that Jerry works out at a gym?’ he asked at last.

  ‘I’ve heard something about that.’

  ‘But not the sort of gym it is, I bet.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s martial arts. He’s getting fairly well advanced now. Reckons he could snap your neck like a stick of rock.’ He smiled thinly.

  ‘He didn’t use it on you,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Oh no.’ Again that painful smile. ‘It wouldn’t, you see, be fair.’

  ‘But you’re suggesting he thought it was fair to use it on your father?’

  He shrugged. ‘He hated father. He doesn’t hate me. He tries to, but it doesn’t work.’

  Damn him, it was the calm way he rolled it out, like a great run of carpet.

  ‘I shall have to give it some thought,’ I told him, giving Amelia the tip. She eased herself to her feet. I didn’t see that, just heard the creak of the chair.

  ‘You do that.’ Paul had his hand to his lip, supporting what had to be a grin. ‘But you’ve just got to listen to this last bit. It’s the best. You’ll laugh.’

  I doubted it, being so far from laughter. Nevertheless, I nodded.

  ‘The will says: art collection. Right?’ He waited for my agreement. ‘Well...what you don’t know is that father considered the library to be part of his art collection. He said the word “art” included writing. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I reckon you’re just the same as everybody else — you don’t see things. Rows and rows, shelves and shelves of books, and all you see is books. But there’re spaces between the bookcases. Look for yourself. Narrowish vertical spaces, just to break up the rows. Gaps of about ten inches. It was most likely my grandpa set it up like that.’

  ‘Is this leading somewhere?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, it is. In those gaps — if you use your eyes — you’ll see pictures. Little ones. Mention paintings to people and they think of something three feet by two, or even up to seven by four, like Reynolds and Gainsborough. So they ignore the small stuff. But every one of those little paintings in the library is the work of one of the Impressionists. Oh yes, they painted small, when they had to. They were usually scratching around for the odd franc or two, just for the price of a meal. They’d paint on anything, bits of plywood or cardboard. You name it. If it’d got a flat surface, they bunged something down on it. And every one of those pictures in the library has got its own history and provenance, as they call it. There’s a folder of documents in the drawer at the end of the table. And most of them are oils. Check for yourself. So...if we keep to the correct legal phrasing, then those are Jerry’s — and there’s a fortune in it for him.’

  I wasn’t liking the sound of this. ‘So why haven’t you told him?’

  ‘Two reasons. One: he’s never even noticed they exist, the ignorant moron. And two: this.’ He touched his jaw. ‘And because of his whole ridiculous attitude to everything he comes across that doesn’t suit him. And don’t tell me — I know that’s three reasons. But the point is: are you going to tell him? Are you?’

  I tried looking him in the eyes, but he didn’t flinch. If there was anything in what he said regarding the small paintings, then Jeremy had to be told. And Paul knew that, so this aspect of it wasn’t in question. The real reason he had wanted to see me was in order to put across his theory as to his father’s death.

  It was perhaps a theory that had grown from wishful thinking. I paused in the doorway, looking back. He pursed his lips and pulled his left ear-lobe.

  ‘Of course I’ve got to tell him,’ I said. ‘Anyway — why doesn’t he know? If your father called the library part of his art collection, then Jeremy must have known that.’

  He shrugged. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  Then, his good manners deserting him, he turned his back on us and stared out of the window into the dark night.

  Quietly, I closed the door behind us. Amelia was waiting to see what I wanted to do next.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘The library, my love, surely.’

  ‘Yes. And perhaps I can find something to read. They don’t seem to have heard of television here.’

  I grunted. It went towards support for the feeling I had, that here I was living in the past.

  The Brontë sisters, I was sure, would have loved this house, particularly when it was pouring with rain and the wind cutting like a knife down the valley. Jane Austen would have filled it with happily unmarried daughters and worried mothers. Trollope would have peopled it with receptions, and politics dustily resounding from the walls. And P. G. Wodehouse would have gone into ecstasies over the staircase, and thrown butlers and secretaries down it with an unsurpassed glee, and with not one broken neck between them.

  Fortunately, the library door was unlocked. I held it open for Amelia as I put on the light, and she pounced on the bookshelves. Just to check, I went and tried the gallery door. It was locked. From inside Jeremy, hearing the latch, raised his voice.

  ‘Who is it? Go away.’

  ‘It’s Richard Patton.’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘I might have something to say—’

  ‘I said, bugger off.’

  I decided not to say my little bit, not now, not later perhaps. He was not in the mood. I wondered whether he’d already contacted Sotheby’s, and was preparing to welcome their agent.

  Amelia turned as I entered the library, her eyes shining, excited, and already with her hands dirty.

  ‘Nobody’s dusted for years,’ she said. ‘But it’s just as Paul said. The pictures are here. Look.’

  I stood, slowly turning, and for the first time concentrated on my surroundings in there. Oh yes, I’d spotted that they were a random and unorganised collection, but now I was being more critical. Of course, Paul would have had something to back up his claims, but there was a certain aura of permanency in this room, a stolid sense of waiting for eternity. It
seemed that nothing had ever disturbed either the books or the furniture. The place stank of discarded years, each one having inflicted no movement apart from the gentle drift of dust.

  The paintings, if they existed, could have hung there — huddled there, it seemed — for another eternity, without discovery.

  But Paul was an artist. Their presence would not have eluded him. And — by heaven — there they were.

  There were five spaces between six blocks of shelving. I could not think of them as bookcases, because there was nothing protecting the books, no glassed doors. There were therefore five spaces between, each about ten inches wide, and recessed by a foot. In these spaces there were dimly visible fifteen small rectangles, three per space, mounted one above the other. The light was not good, and it was not surprising that they would have escaped notice because, whatever dusting the room itself might have received, this had not been extended into the alcoves. No feather duster had reached in to tickle their surfaces to life.

  Each one had a tiny plaque beside it, bearing no more than a number, these dimly detectable, one to fifteen in sequence, moving in a clockwise direction from the door.

  I peered closely. Amelia was doing the same thing, the other side of the room. It was almost impossible to detect any variation in the dusty, grimy surfaces, nothing in any way suggesting a picture. Each one was framed, matching frames in plain, black narrow wood. And they were behind glass, I realised.

  This, to me, seemed at first to disqualify them as oils, which are not usually framed behind glass. But the framing might have arisen, I realised later, from the necessity to support the material used by the artist. It wasn’t until I stiffened my nerve sufficiently to try a duster on them that I discovered the glass.

  This duster I’d found in the drawer at the end of the table. I was searching, in fact, for the folder Paul had mentioned, containing what he’d called the provenances. Carefully, I tried the duster, and glass was revealed on No. 1. It also revealed that it was supported by a simple ring hooked on to a simple nail in the wall. I therefore lifted it off and placed it on the table, where I could see to clean it properly and inspect it on the open surface. Even now the light was poor, from a single central globe. One would have expected better light in a library, but clearly it had never been intended as a room in which to read.